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Use Me: A Story about the Machine, and the Sum of It's Parts (Pt.2 of 2)

lzamora

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Hi all!! Hope this message finds you well. This is part two, pretty much wrapping up this story as is. I'm quite happy with myself for what I consider a first step in world building. This is basically my take on what happens behind the scenes in the fetish industry. Thank you all for taking a look. Enjoy!! I you don't like the story, or simply don't feel it's working, please leave your thoughts in a comment. I have yet to get constructive criticism, but I feel it would help me grow as a writer.

Use Me: A Story about the Machine, and the Sum of It's Parts (Pt.2)​

A Stellar Piece of Glass

Two sips into Amara’s second cup of coffee still wasn’t enough time to process the words coming out of Trent’s mouth. What had at first seemed like an innocent follow up to a Los Angeles night of flirtatious promiscuity, had divulged into something out of a well spun novel. It was a twist she hadn’t anticipated, and she was on shaky moral ground, to say nothing of the bible verse Sandy had sent her earlier.

“So you’re telling me, in order to help save the company, I need to make a racy video?”

Trent threw up his hands till they were combing knots out of his shaggy blonde hair.

“Look I’ve given you all the particulars, shown you the emails, confirmed the stats…”

“Yesterday, you were just some guy at a bar.”

He contemplated going down that path. To traverse the tired trope of an apologetic deceiver, but this was business, so he forced his personal interests onto the back burner.

“No Mint Wax, no Amara.”

Amara’s looked right through him, to the glass window that sported those infamous golden arches. An employee, elbows deep in Windex, was busy trying to rub out a stubborn stain keeping perfection from his grasp.

“There are a number of other record labels.”

“True but,” Trent took a bite of his hash brown, “they’d be in your debt and that sounds a hell of a lot better than waiting to see if maybe, just maybe, someone else will cut you a deal.”

Choosing to not dwell on the stain, the employee popped his back, collected his cleaning equipment, and abandoned the blotch on what was otherwise a stellar looking piece of glass.

“I want to hear it from him.”

Trent whipped out his phone and began to dial.

“I respect that.”

Amara sighed and held the brim of the cup to her lips. The coffee’s aroma aroused her insides as hunger set in and roared from deep within her belly.

“You know, when I told myself I’d do whatever it takes, this is not what I anticipated.”

And though the coffee was hot, her impatience got the best of her and she sipped it anyway.

“Well, unforeseen circumstances are a fact of life.”

The beverage burned, but there was no denying that the tinge of pain on her tongue was worth the taste.

“Clearly.”

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Back in New York, as the sun crept through the veiled windows of her suite, Claire was all but too comfortable, nestled between two pillows, gripping one for dear life, and using the other between her legs. The nights events felt more like distant dreams in the haze of her consciousness, but slowly memories pieced themselves together in coherent sequential order till the puzzle was complete again. She opened her eyes to red abrasions splotched about her wrists, a side effect of reflexive human nature being pushed to its limits, limits of which were inherently substandard. Sasha had assured that with time she’d learn to adapt and embrace the bondage as part and parcel in the grand scheme of things. But as the remanence of the night’s escapades resurfaced, she gripped the pillow tighter.

A push notification lit up her screen and sent her phone into a low melodic hum as it came closer to the nightstand’s edge. A portion of her pay had already been electronically transferred. The numbers brought about a smirk and encouraged her to sit up despite the mild burning pestering her abdominals. But then another notification came through that sent a shiver down her spine.

Immediately the bed devolved from this comfort zone of peace and tranquility and into the monstrous white void it was the night before. The feeling of leather wrapped tightly against her bronze skin made her hands throb. The sounds of resilient metallic clanks, indefinite, made her gulp. Sasha was coming for a visit and that could only mean one thing. Claire was going to get tickled again.

As Jackson so eloquently texted, “A matter of significance” had sped up the times tables in what was an, “unprecedented event”. As such, Claire’s, “services would be acquisitioned”. She’d considered disputing such a quick turnaround; that the physical toll and its repercussions, had yet to subside. Were it not for a stack of fine print tucked away neatly in a manila folder she just might have had a case. But page after page sank her heart deeper and deeper till it could sink no more.

Stand Clear of the Closing Doors

For Sasha, commuting from Williamsburg was as commonplace as applying makeup in the morning or burning off empty calories on her elliptical machine. But on this day, on this J Train to the St. Regis, things weren’t as commonplace as they seemed. The lights still flickered on those tight turns. Dance crews were still busting moves in tight spaces; captivating onlookers. The rancid smell of alcohol, porous from an evening’s transgressions, was still foul and invasive. No, the world around Sasha was as it has always been, only now she was beginning to loathe her place in it.

She fancied herself an actress of sorts, and hadn’t allowed the allure of such grandiose accommodations to dictate her emotional state. But from the blue ivory headboard with its intricately carved designs, to the view of the city from up over the trellis and its dazzlingly deep green vines, it was hard not to feel sucker punched. What was vaguely noticeable before had been made abundantly clear over the course of an hour with Claire, and it made her stomach churn.

An automated announcement came on over the intercom as a new wave of commuters filed in. Instructed to, “stand clear of the closing doors,” they crammed into what space was left on the train thinning her air just a little more.

Taking a seat right across from Sasha was a slender woman not too far removed from her 30’s though her sun dried skin would tell you otherwise. Her hair was greasy and disheveled under the rim of a loose fitting green beanie. Crusty fingerless gloves, that could have stood on their own volition, encased her hands. Off a dry wheeze came this stale scent of smoke toxic enough to make Sasha reach into her duffel bag. But before she could find her perfume her hands grazed against another something, and for a moment she stared down at her corset.

Ruby

A black-haired beauty as bubbly as she was buxom, Ruby’s assets were head turners. At Saturday’s event in Midtown she’d put them on display in a skintight backless halter with a plunging neckline. She was an instant attraction and had even managed to sidle a dusty rocket with a deep pocket.

One of the night’s biggest contributors, Randy Faulk, was frantically scanning the room for a napkin when she’d parked next to his shoulder and tossed him one. Her boobs managed to keep him gob smacked long enough to forget the little Cuban number that had abruptly left him with trickles of ice cream running down his hand. Her British accent did the rest of the heavy lifting.

In the matter of an entrée, amidst an airy evening under a crimson sky, there were talks of lost time, missed connections, and how impressive it was to see a girl actually enjoying her meal. In retrospect she regretted gnawing the porterhouse to the bone, but Jordan’s untimely text had been just that, untimely. It seemed to be her way. Never the less Ruby wasn’t one to negate her obligations, and the prospect of getting to work with Claire Espinoza was an opportunity that an extra inch on her figure wasn’t about to impede.

Training Claire

There were a number of finite details that had been negated in the haze of Claire’s drawing power and one stood before Ruby now, a mere five foot three, arms crossed against a sleeveless black tank top. Even in rumpled stockings and cherry print panties Sasha’s sharp stare was enough to make Ruby’s knees buckle. Ruby sighed and made a mental note to exchange words with Jordan about her lack of discretion.

“Won’t you come in?”

After a long drawn out breath Ruby crossed the threshold to Claire’s blue Madison suite.

“Look Sasha, I didn’t mean to…”

“Oh what, score the rebound? Wasn’t even on my mind, friend.”

Ruby decompressed, letting her shoulders sag.

“Oh my days, I was worried this had become damp squib on my account.”

“A what?”

“Damp squib darling. You know, gone to pot?”

Sasha stared blankly. The lingo was in itself an enigma, but if there was one thing that was understood, it was that lust was as skin deep across the pond as it was in the states.

Claire emerged from the restroom phone in hand. A pair of loose capris and a fitted black t-shirt made up her ensemble. The finishing touch was a smirk plastered on her face, but as much as Instagram’s uplifting comments continued to pour in, there was an even more uplifting thought keeping the smirk in place.

“Claire, I’d like you to meet Ruby, Ruby this is…”

“Sod off if it isn’t Claire Espinoza!”

An extended handshake that shook Claire to her core followed. An excitement, brimming like a boiling pot of tea, spawned a slew of questions and an impromptu selfie session. The enthusiasm just seemed to roll on unphased, even as the rest of the afternoon’s details were ironed out.

“Well, I haven’t been tickled in ages, so I haven’t the foggiest how this is going to go, but I’m a sport.”

More attuned to what the industry defined as its mainstream demographic, Ruby’s comfort level was something to behold as she stripped down as if her clothes were on fire. In nothing but a translucent leopard print bra and panty, she looked to the bed and gasped.

“Oh those things look frightening.”

Claire nodded in agreement as she rubbed her wrists. She said nothing but paid close attention to the proceedings.

Ruby kept to high spirits as she willingly submitted her arms and legs to the four corners of the bedframe.

“I say, this bed is enormous, Mr. Summit certainly spared no expense.”

Sasha stifled a chuckle and began to spread Ruby’s legs.

“Mr. Summit? This suite comes courtesy of Miss Espinoza.”

“Oh my, those are cold,” Ruby gasped, “must they be so tight?”

Sasha remained silent. There was no witty banter, or even a snappy one liner. Her focus was on getting Ruby as immobile as possible, in as little time as possible.

Ruby stretched her neck to its limits and caught Claire staring idly.

“Did she do yours this tight?”

Claire threw up her hands, lowered her lip, and nodded in correlation to the question. It was clear, based on what Sasha had let on, that there was some history between them, and that it was Jordan who’d, “felt ever so sorry about the untimely intrusion,” and taken it upon herself to initiate the pairing.

A short stint on network television had seen Claire act through a number of wafer thin plotlines with unimaginative dialogue. The script in her hand now was even more flimsy, literally. A single piece of paper which had seemingly been pieced together the night before entitled, “How to Train Your Tickler” outlined the exploits of an aspiring, “tickler” being coached on the finer points of exploiting a, “subject’s spots”.

It seemed ridiculous that Sasha would put her faith in a Samsung Galaxy. That such a slender piece of tech could possibly compete with industry standards such as Sony or Panasonic was indeed hard to fathom. But with the attachments she’d armed it with, quality assurance was guaranteed.

“Much better than that turd Tommy likes to use.”

Claire agreed and praised the phone for being a sleek and sexy contrast to the bulky black hunk of plastic from the night before.

“Okay so you remember how to work it right?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Claire rolled her eyes and fiddled with the phone till Ruby was its center of attention. In the serenity of ignorance, Ruby was calm, her breaths, slow and steady. Claire pawed at her neck as she watched Sasha adjust the last clasp to her corset and make her way towards the foot of the bed. A single head nod in her direction was instruction enough.

Cheery pleasantries were exchanged, and a demeanor that had been noticeably absent in the lead up was on display. Sasha seemed to be adept at turning it on and off in synchrony with the camera, and the ability to successfully market an illusion had Claire more appreciative of her.

“Oh Claire!”

Serving as her cue to creep out from behind the camera, and invest in the moment, Claire sidled Sasha. Sporting contentment, Claire nodded in compliance as Sasha scantly went over the particulars of Ruby’s anatomy. Taking a more layman’s approach, potential, “spots” were identified, and characteristics of overall ticklishness was discussed through stale banter with their, “subject” looking on in nervous excitement.

“So like, what you’re going to do, and this goes for all of you watching at home, is you’re going to take one finger and lightly run it down the arm, and this is just to like, warm up the skin you know? Then we’ll go a little harder, and that’s when things get hella interesting.”

Claire kept to slow, somewhat apprehensive, finger flicks along Ruby’s arm, wearing a smile as she watched her fidget. If Claire was being honest with herself, an induction into these rules of engagement seemed rather pointless. But on a more poignant note, Sasha had exhibited quite the ruthless exhibition on her, an exhibition unlike any she’d ever experienced. So perhaps there was a method to the madness.

“Is this good Miss Sasha?”

“A little faster hun.”

As much as Ruby’s flustered face expressed a level of discontent, so too had Sasha, in her own right begun to furrow her brows.

“Why don’t you try two fingers now, hu? A little faster and just a little harder.”

Ruby, who’d already been reduced to fits of snickers shook her head and braced for the trepid tingles sure to arise off her tender hollows.

“Oh my days, two fingers? This is bananas!”

Like a match strikes against a box, sparks were ignited along her tender skin forcing a shriek that ascended into the heavens. Stuttering giggles followed, as the initial touch was lost in a slew of sensations riveting her armpits.

“OH MY DAYS-SA-HA-HA… WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN INTO?”

Encouraged by the laughter, Claire quickly spread her fingers and began dripping them all over Ruby’s arm. So enthralled, dripping of devotion, Claire mounted the bed without heed to stifle Ruby’s hip shimmies.

“Whoah there partner!”

Despite the pleasure she took in Claire’s unscripted antics, Sasha was prompt to remind her that a fixated camera meant that they were shooting from one angle and that nobody ever masturbated to a full screen shot of someone’s back.

“Why don’t we navigate a little further down.”

In what was a weightless plea for mercy, Ruby shook her head.

“Don’t listen to her. She’s only pretending to be tired, aren’t you Ruby?”

Claire pinged her eyes from captive to instructor and back again, hands at her sides as Sasha pinched the air encouragingly with Ruby wheezing below; the indecision, strengthened by a mild discomfort picking at Claire from her midsection.

“Allow me to demonstrate.”

Claire took two trepid steps back as Sasha sidled their subject and reintroduced herself. Taking to jovial tones the likes one takes to comforting a hapless puppy from the corner of its kennel, she stroked back a rouge lock of Ruby’s hair and placed a gentle hand along her ribcage. Looking straight into the camera Sasha explained the importance of, “leaving no stone unturned,” and after promising to, “be nice,” she did exactly that.

Treading as if her fingers were hot blades on thin ice she danced around the truth. It had been eating away at her ever since Jordan’s call. And though all she had was a second-hand account, the “what ifs” were certainly playing their role as visions of graffiti lined subway carts shook the foundations of her moral ground. A text message proved to be the breaking point.

“OH MY DAAYS-SEE-HEE-HEE… I CAN’T S-STOOP LAUGHING-GEE-HEE-HEE!”

Ruby had failed to silence her phone prior to the shoot, a significant, “cock up” that meant the scene would have to be edited. But on this day, the blatant ‘beep’, so often dismissed as just another monotony, would hold significant emotional weight; weight beyond fathom.
She had tried to divert their attention, hastily scrambling for words amidst her physical handicap; but Sasha wasn’t one to be deterred least of all by some flippant Brit who was in no position to negotiate.

“Bollocks.”

The word, uttered quietly under her breath, was all Ruby could muster as she read the reaction on Sasha’s face. Claire had since crept up behind her and indulged in the juicy morsel of text.

“So, it’s true.”

Claire stood motionless, taking a backseat to the events unfolding before her eyes. For a split second she thought of Amara, and how this situation faintly mirrored her own misfortunes at Mint Wax, only now there was this minute sense that the upper hand was about to impose its will.

Ruby, stammering and bewildered, gave a hard tug to her restraints. The act did little else but reaffirm their commitment to keeping her shackled. Her bubbly nature became instantly anesthetized, as she apprehensively kept to a swivel as Sasha moved about the room.

“Wait… no… Sasha, let’s be sensible… let’s be sensible.”

Sasha’s corset had become even more constricting in her frustrations, etching itself like a branding iron along her sides. And though the room was at a balmy seventy-four degrees, a trickle of sweat had already started to roll down her lower back. Her eyes reverted from the text and to her Samsung still recording.

“You’re right. Claire, look alive. Let’s give Miss Ruby here, the attention she deserves.”

Just like that, it was on with the show; the illusion allowed to continue, Sasha’s fabricated smile, at its forefront.

Burgers and Fries and Everything Nice

It was a generous shopping visa, even split down the middle, and she couldn’t imagine a better person worth sharing it with. An excursion down L. A’s finest galleries, malls, and outlets made for one of the more outrageous splurges in recent memory, second only to her dorm room haul, when a pair of teary eyed parents generously dipped into their pensions to commemorate an acceptance letter.

“How about this one?”

Amara smirked. Pink wasn’t exactly a store that catered to the needs of plus-sized women, so it was few and far between bundles of clothing when Sandy found something complimenting. And one good turn deserved another.

“It’s totally you!”

Sandy blushed, gave a quick curtsy, and retreated into the fitting rooms where she’d draped a beach towel over the door for additional privacy. It was an unreal feeling, being half naked in what she considered to be the bikini capitol of the world. That she would ever brave the beach in a two piece, was another matter entirely.

Burgers tasted better when they weren’t being crammed into a sack and tossed from out a second window. The two agreed that the lettuce was fresher, the bacon crispier, and though Sandy’s jeans were advising against it, the salty waft of Cajun fries proved too overbearing.

Tuesday came to an end under a cloudless sky, to the sun setting across the waters of Santa Monica, a gentle breeze nipping at their skin. Obligation lingered at the bottom of her cherry daiquiri, encouraging Amara to take conservative sips. Sandy was content to sport a bottle of Dasani.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure what you’d say.”

“Well, we may not always see eye to eye, but you’re still my friend.”

The sweet taste of Amara’s beverage lingered as she let its tiny ice particles dissolve in simultaneous unison.

“That means a lot. You know, you could like, still be in on this.”

After a sarcastic chuckle, Sandy knocked back a swig from her bottle.

“Um, no thank you.”

“Oh come on. There’s a market for girls like you.”

Sandy sat up and raised her brows as the phrase set in.

“Girls like me?”

“Oh yeah totally! BBWs! They’re um, it stands for like, bold beautiful women, or something like that.”

“Yeah, I think you’ve reached your limit. Waiter, no more drinks for this girl!”

Amara snorted and took another sip of daiquiri, pensive as it coursed down her throat.

“It’s not like I’m going to be naked or anything.”

“I know.”

Taking a prolonged gaze out onto the shoreline, Sandy noticed a slick scoop of ice-cream escaping the grasp of a boy desperately trying to keep it on his sugar cone. Splotched on the ground the chocolate desert tainted what was otherwise a blanket of fine white sand. As the boy began to sob his mother looked on and told him not to worry, that the scoop would soon melt, and wash away.

“The bible does say, “let he who is without sin, cast the first stone”.”

A Stumbling Block

Sasha could feel his face tensing and his eyes popping, as the strain in every word further illustrated his struggle to grasp the ill-fated news.

“Stumbling block is hardly the right vernacular.”

She was pensive and with good reason as his heavy breaths coursed in her ear.

“Yes… sorry sir.”

“If what you’ve said is true, we’d better pray they don’t go digging into that card.”

“I know sir.”

“God only knows what it could mean for us if that video were to surface.”

“Tommy said it was some junkie looking for a fix; boxed him up for it and ran.”

“I’d call it a hollow victory if that scumbag just wipes the card clean.”

“Agreed.”

A long-traversed trail of past misfortunes ran through his mind as he, with a heavy heart, fabricated a harrowing thought.

“Has Tom ever expressed any discontent?”

“No sir.”

“Maybe in passing, something he might have said?”

With a clenched fist against her hip Sasha bit down on her words.

“He’s an honest man. If he said it was stolen, it was stolen.”

“Honesty can be haggled with, given favorable circumstances.”

His persistence jabbed at her like a knife, causing a swelling discomfort to swirl in her stomach.

“Not everyone’s for sale Mr. Summit.”

He could have scoffed at her remark and commented on the foundation of their relationship, but there was hardly time for offbeat tangents.

“Where’s Tom now?”

An engulfing screech diverted her attention to the window where down below, on unkept asphalt, a narrowly avoided collision drew polluting obscenities and obscene hand gestures; a staple of the Williamsburg experience.

“WHERE’S TOM?”

“Sorry… sir. He’s… he’s doing a sweep of local pawn shops, hopefully the camera will turn up.”

Jackson gripped his phone tighter and pressed it against his face withholding the urge to erupt.

“Pray that it does. Jordan and I will keep our heads on a swivel until then. It only takes an ember to start a wildfire. If this gets out, we’ll all be looking at pay cuts to supplement what she’s contractually owed.”

Pressing her thumb against a peeled edge of wall paper, she stifled a sniffle.

“Listen, Lord knows John’s already expressed his doubts. The last thing we need is this driving him off the edge. He’s the key you know… that vast market of Miranda Cosgroves’ and Sabrina Carpenters’ so gullible, so ripe. Find it.”

“Yes sir.”

“That’s a good girl. In the meantime, you continue to roll as if we’re a well-oiled machine with no chinks.”

“Yes sir.”

“Now don’t forget, per our agreement, Amara will be bringing a tag-along. It’s important you keep her out of that room. We can’t risk her ruining the reveal.”

“Your need for authenticity knows no bounds sir.”

Threshold

The place was no stranger to the unbridled rage of a leather adorned dominatrix or to the endorphins running high off scantily clad women. The walls, these trails traversed of broken spirits, their stories were etched with screams, pleas, and moans off the merciless cracking of whips to the clanking of chains. Sat on a foundation of lust and desire, it’s very essence made Sandy shutter as she walked through the door and breathed in its history.

It was coated in a fine layer of Lysol but, embedded underneath lingered the faint remanence of perspiration and whatever other bodily fluids were forcibly drawn from patrons devoted or otherwise curious about tasting of the fruit.

Her body felt heavy and twisted to sideways as a large red devil hung in the reception area; a grotesque descending tongue of orange flames. She was no stranger to devils, least of all what Hollywood had ingrained in our brains as the uncanny image now in her sights. But she also knew devils didn’t always look like that.

A jovial voice diverted her attention as Sasha waved them down.

No devils didn’t always look like fiery red beasts. Sometimes they wore thick black eye liner and walked with a swing in their hips and a bounce in their breasts. Sometimes they toted caramelized skin and carried a smile with a reassuring nod that everything would be fine.

With hurried hands she reached for her phone. The words couldn’t form fast enough as her fingers clumsily stumbled across each letter to form her distress signal.

The warning was received with a hearty smile and a short and concise reply thanking Sandy for her concern.

“It’s this way Miss Vega.”

A quick hug was the last thing they shared before a solid red door split them apart.

Beyond the Door

There were no vents to speak of nor the least a fan to help coddle her body as its rampant heat began to surface the more she looked around. Whips and flogs symmetrically lined walls, leather cuffs suspended in the air with rustic looking chains thick enough to harbor a yacht all sent an itch across her neck. What was ultimately going to be her demise, this hypnotic red table, knocked her back a few steps as an air of reconsideration shortened her breath.

“There’s a restroom’s over there if you like, wanna freshen up.”

A compact compartment of sloppily painted reds and a cracked mirror gave Amara one last bit of privacy as she encouraged herself to fake another smile this time at herself. An incessant hiss exuding a rancid odor made her cringe as the toilet’s struggles to settle were tantamount to her own reservations.

Opting for subtle promiscuity she slipped into a black sports bra and a pair of low rise yoga pants, investing in the innocence of a lower abdominal tattoo, Ariel swimming across her skin. The tattoo’s significance lied in the embedded memories of a pigtail wearing ankle biter pawing at a pane of glass; swearing it was the only think keeping her from an appointed destiny with the little red-haired girl and her pudgy companion. After a few deep breaths she opened the door to another appointed destiny one not of vibrance, but of precipice as an impending horizon of infinite promise lied just a few steps further.

“Oh great, you’re um, ready.”

“Kinda sorta you know? Like I’ve obviously never done this before so…”

“Butterflies are totally normal. Just relax, this will all be over before you know it and you can get on with your day, and I’ll get on with mine, blah, blah, blah.”

“Oh, are you going to a birthday party after this?”

“Oh no, ha! We’ll get to that later, for now if you could just step up.”

The leather was surprisingly cool to the touch as she eased herself onto the table. With loosened limbs she submitted herself and watched pensively as her legs were spread.

“Oh shoot, my shoes.”

Sasha carried on as if the words hadn’t registered, but once she’d locked in both ankles, she looked up again.

“We’ll get to that later. You’d be surprised at like, how many people get off on just that.”

“That?”

“Shoe removal.”

Amara shrugged and flattened out as Sasha took to securing her wrists. A bronze tarnish over embossed metallic paneling would be her view; all the more gothic as thick cobwebs dangled from off their corners.

“How old is this place?”

Sasha joined Amara in a look at the ceiling and snickered.

“Oh that? Ha! It’s like that on purpose. These rooms all have different themes.”

They were a snug fit against her wrists offering very little in the way of wiggle room and after giving them a light tug, as instructed, she knew it was time to think about that special word Sasha had told her to remember.

It was house policy that the word be the same across the board for its patrons, and fortunately for Amara the room was covered in its various shades from crimson to cherry.

“So like, what happens now?”

“What happens now is you get blindfolded.”

“Wait what? I won’t be able to see?”

“Trust me, it helps take the edge off when you can’t see it coming.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, you don’t really have a choice so, sorry not sorry.”

Unwillingly, Amara strained her head and allowed a pink satin blindfold with the word, “sleep” stitched across it to shadow the room, and in darkness she laid rigid, cautious to the sounds of shuffling feet and a zippered duffel bag being rummaged. Something, ‘clinked’ to the ground and Sasha sighed. It scraped along the hardwood as, conceivably, she bent down to pick it up. Then there was the coolness of a crisp bedsheet being draped over her body and the, ‘crinkle’ of Sasha’s pink bow as it was firmly affixed right below her breastbone.

“See, I told you we’d get to this later.”

“What am I a present?”

“Something like that.”

“For who?”

“Oh, you’ll see.”

“Wait um, I thought you, aren’t you tickling me?"

“Ha! I never said that silly goose! Be back in a sec.”

Silence was its own torture, amplified, not so much by circumstance, but by the flood of afterthoughts floating like ghosts of things she’d left behind. Signing came so easy. The pen was smooth; its bleeding tip leaving a flawless etch along the dotted line.

In an adjoining room, separated by frilled Victorian curtains, Claire was finagling with a matte red leather jumpsuit. It tapered ends seemingly determined to pinch her as inch by inch its zipper compressed her body.

“Wait, you can breathe in that thing right?”

“Barely. Are we ready?”

“She’s all yours.”

“Why can’t you just tell me?”

“It’s a surprise. Tommy you good?”

“Spent after last night, but this thing has so many settings it’s ridiculous. What ever happened to just shooting a film?”

Claire’s lengthy struggle came to an end as the suit finally reached her bosom, a blossoming cleavage. She wobbled out on six-inch heels with Tommy already filming her backside. She huffed her first words into existence.

“My-my-my! What have we here? Looks like someone’s left me a present.”

“Wait, Sasha?”

“No Sasha, only me. Now let’s see. Hmm, courtesy of Mr. Jackson Summit. How sweet of him, and it’s not even my birthday. Well, let’s unwrap this gift. Who’s hiding under there?”

The word, “sleep” made Claire smirk.

“Oh, once I’m through with you…”

She gagged on her own saliva, dropping the blindfold to the ground, her ominous tone subdued by an all-encompassing gasp.

“Are you serious right now?”

With a long drawn out face Amara let out her own befuddlement with sharp choppy breaths.

“Oh… my God… Claire… Espinoza?”

With her lip ensnared between her teeth Claire happily eyed the bounty of captive flesh beginning to struggle under her dominion.

“Well this is… some surprise.”

Frantic, Amara cried for Sasha, straining her head towards the curtains squinting as if by some miracle she’d be blessed with x-ray vision.

“This is a joke, right? This is a joke!”

Claire looked to the curtains from the corner of her eye, then down at her hands and the raw power in each finger as she flexed them.

“You, you are the reason I’m here.”

Rambling under her breath Amara shook her head frantically, each shake only scrambling her thoughts.

“What’s that, you’re sorry? You didn’t mean to?”

Powerless fists crashed against leather confinements as the unreal weight being placed on her chest began to quickly crush her spirits.

“Like what’s the matter? Scared of a little tickle?”

She managed a whimpering, “yes” and pulled her body to the opposite side of the table as if Claire’s jurisdiction didn’t extend to all four corners of it.

Claire clopped to the head of the table, turning to give her face to the camera. She shrugged her shoulders and threw up her hands as the moment, and all its absurdity, sank in.

“This is hardly what I consider payback, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Before she could blurt another heartfelt apology, the insatiable urge to laugh crept up her throat as Claire’s fingernails began their descend down her biceps. They were a mere two fingers scribbling doodles against her skin but coupled with the overwhelming sense of helplessness it proved to be more than enough.

“OH MEH GOD… WHOA SH-SHIT-TEE-HEE-HEE!”

Claire snickered alongside her captive and stole a worn line of dialogue from out of Sasha’s many quips.

“Oh come on, I’m barely touching you.”

Amara replied with a light blast of choppy giggles as each convulsion simultaneously shook the table. For a moment she feared knocking herself over until she remembered that each leg was bolted to the ground.

“WHOA-AH-HA-HA! NOT THERE-REE-HEE-HEE!”

As much as it was proving effective, Claire could not keep to light fingertip traces. Her thirst for vengeance, the need to explore her captive’s every crevice, urged her to delve beyond the surface.

“Now how about these tender looking armpits, hu?”

A shimmy towards the opposite side of the table proved, much like every other evasive action, a wasted maneuver as Claire’s hands effortlessly clutched Amara’s pits, pinching flesh to the tendon.

“WHA-HA-HA… WHOA-HO-HO!”

The caressing clutch sent waves of hair raising tingles through her hollows evoking a free flow of high pitched squeals and cackles the likes of a dental patient on nitrous oxide. Wave after torturous wave forced to life each delicate nerve ending, confining them to a life of purgatory for so long as that little black camera continued to film.

“Sucks doesn’t it, being so ticklish, so helpless?”

Amara confirmed by screaming the word, “red” into existence.

It registered instantly, the word’s weight insurmountable as Claire retracted her hands.

“That’s one. Strike three, and… well I don’t need to tell you what happens after that.”

Crazed off the exasperating tremors slowly scattering away, Amara’s quest for answers picked up right where it left off.

“How, how… oh God why… this is crazy.”

“Save your breath, you’ll need it in about fifteen seconds.”

Amara’s interrogative demeanor quickly dissipated as the more pressing issue of Claire unknotting her laces spread a wave of dread so vile she curled her toes.

“Oh come on… you… you don’t have to do that.”

“Oh I really think I should.”

The resounding, ‘thud’ of her shoes hitting the floor sent a lump up her throat; affirmation that only a pair of flimsy pink socks stood between her feet and the eminence of vengeful hands. Claire’s nails were sharp and pierced through the socks with relative ease, finding their niche at the balls of her soles where they rested motionless; for what, she wasn’t sure, but she flexed every muscle and braced for the embrace.

“You seem tense.”

“Yeah no shit.”

Claire’s brow made Amara want to reach out into the air and collect her poorly timed words, but there they sat, collectively intangible. She hurled apologies, trying to blanket them, but those proved of little consequence as remorse was in short supply.

“Cracking wise, hu?”

The question was answered with sporadic stifled snickers off teeming titillations traversing her soles.

“CHA-HA-HA… KAA-HA-HA… FUCKING WHAAT-TA-HA-HA!”

Fast fingers chasing sensations ascended her soles where flat arches served as a canvas for a relentless assault. Nipping at the cuffs of her socks, Claire peeled them away till they resembled stocking caps atop her toes. No longer a hindrance, she placed her nails right on Amara’s wrinkled bottoms.

“Let’s see what we have to play with here.”

“Okay, okay, okay… Claire come on… ple-hee-hease.”

“This past week has been like, a nightmare, and you are so not in a position to tell me what to do.”

With her words only serving to solidify the obvious, Claire took to quick and slippery fingertip traces of Amara’s arches. Priceless foot twitches and trembling legs offered Tommy a reason to invest in a close up shot of the action. Inadvertently, Claire found herself glancing into the lens, a mistake short lived as her attention was called to a string of curses being flung her way.

“Bitch what? I know you didn’t just like… damn this girl’s got balls.”

Clumsily repetitive and hardly eloquent, another slew of apologetic words fell off her tongue as she struggled to catch her breath. The apology was received with a lively swipe of her socks that left exposed a set of plump toes.

“Oh God no… Claire… Claire… it’s not my fault… it’s not my fault.”

“Let’s see what Sasha left me… hmm… this looks interesting,” Claire said, inspecting the pinwheel, “some like… medieval,” she ran it across her arm, letting each pin spark a nerve, “oh wow, you’re going to hate this.”

Amara strained her head, watching tentatively as Claire held the pinwheel to her left toe. It’s touch alone made her leg twitch and she grit her teeth, seething as the spikes pricked her skin. Tension drew a trickle of sweat down her backside as her face forcefully blossomed from a contorted cringe into a wonky smile.

“WHA-HA-HA-AT… IS-SS-SA-HA THAT THING-GEE-HEE-HEE!”

Claire shrugged, but affirmed that which Amara had already made evident in the high-pitched warbles off unprecedented octaves. It was an amazing instrument, capable of igniting uncanny sensations.

“Don’t you just hate how that feels?”

Her thighs slammed against the table, her fists shook till they were a blueberry shade, but for all her violent efforts, not an inch of freedom was gained.

“CLAIRE PLEEE-HEE-HEEASE… ST-ST-STOP-PA-HA-HA!”

With what little effort it took to provoke Amara, force was hardly an applicable variable when using the pinwheel. Its simplicity was so, that Claire whimsically motioned to remain on the foot for the duration of the shoot; a suggestion quickly abandoned as Tommy subtly motioned for Claire to move up the legs.

“So like, where else are you ticklish, hu?”

Amara’s face was flush red as she raised her head to meet her captor. She huffed away a rouge lock of hair, relieved that the pinwheel was nowhere to be seen, but still on the defensive as Claire’s unwavering lust oozed off her fingertips and onto her kneecaps.

“CLAIRE-REE-HEE-HEE… NO KNEES... NO KNEE-HEE-HEEASE!”

She’d shot herself in the foot, wearing such a slick garment to a tickle shoot, and with each nail etching its way into her skin, the cute little cosmic yoga pants were quickly cementing their place on her list of fashion faux pas.

“It’s like you wore these just for me!”

A hard squeeze along her femur caused Amara’s hips to thrust skyward, a motion she repeated as her other leg was tested.

“Are you like, fucking a ghost or something?”

The quip brought about a giggle from Claire as she stepped back and wicked away a light film of sweat from atop her forehead, a wonder about her eyes. She wandered back to the foot of the table where an instrument better suited for the fight against plaque laid pristine; as if it had never seen a cavity. Today, it would get its crown.

A faint buzz down by her toes made Amara spring up to the limits of her restraints. Watching the toothbrush inch closer made her lip quiver as she searched for sympathy through a bundle of bobbled words. A hundred vibrant bristles grazed against her arches, rotating in a constant rhythmic churning that turned her search for sympathy into a symphony of unbridled belly laughs bouncing off the walls as her body, in turn, bounced off the table.

Claire left no inch of foot unexplored, navigating every wrinkle off its scrunched posture, down to the bottoms where perfectly rounded heels sat helplessly vulnerable to the torturous device. But between the toes, in those tiny pockets of space, lied an untapped area of immense sensitivity so tender it evoked the most hellacious fits of involuntary hip thrusts ever captured on camera.

“WHAA-HA-HA… FUCKING SHIT… OH THIS SUUUCKS-SA-HA-HA… CLAIRE PLEEE-HEE-HEE-ASE-SA-HA-HA!”

Remembering Her Place

Whispering lyrics to a song she’d wrote, Sasha skimmed her hand across the chalkboard collecting a finger’s worth of fine white power. She peered down at the three symmetrically aligned rows of little wooden desks, remembering her place. “The naughty chair”, a slender wooden stool, sat off to the right of the, “teacher’s” desk. Feeling under its seat made her smirk as she came upon a small wad of gum crusted onto its smooth texture.

“It’s still here,” she whispered to herself.

“The board of education”, a thick piece of leather laden mahogany, sat on a mantel amidst a variety of vintage literature. Several years, and she could still feel its course, unfinished edge, ‘thwacking’ against her supple butt cheeks.

An untimely buzz against her thigh interrupted her reflections. It was Jackson Summit. His words made her legs grow faint and as they wearily fell out from under her she sank into the clutches of the, “teacher’s” chair; an oversized throne of authoritative height scaled with the intent to project power and dominion.

“At least it was untitled,” She sighed, grasping at the silver lining.

“Oh yes, I’m sure Instagram’s most followed personality won’t be recognized.”

His eye roll could be felt through the phone, and she could slap herself for being so stupid.

“Oh, right.”

“Jordan’s still ironing out the details with site traffickers.”

She rested a burdened head against the palm of her hand.

“It was downloaded?”

“Twice. Hopefully just a couple wankers adding to their collection.”

Sasha raised her brows and huffed.

“Hopefully.”

“Tell me things are going a bit smoother on your end?”

Beyond the Door Cont.

Swimming just south of her navel, Amara’s tattoo encouraged Claire to gander at the toned physique glistening under a thin layer of sweat. It was enviably flat, sun soaked to a dark caramel, and begging for attention as it expanded and contracted.

“No, no, no… come on… please… I’ll do anything.”

“Oh you like totally did do something; and now, well… this is what you get.”

Spiraling thumbs came crashing down against her waist, cutting right through her flesh and onto her hipbones. And though an angelic chorus of laughter continued to flow, the demand on her body was so, that fatigue was beginning to anesthetize what had otherwise been a lively display of adverse reactions.

“OH I CAN’T, I CAN’T, I CAN’T-TA-HA-HA!”

“Suck it up bitch!”

The statement served as a microcosm to the events unfolding, un-minced, backed up by the egregious sensations of clamped hands along her sides reconfiguring her curves.

“Don’t act like you don’t deserve this!”

“BUT I DON’T-TA-HA-HA!”

Claire rolled her eyes and moved inward to where a perfectly round navel, and all its unflustered nerve endings, sat ripe for her fingernails. Gravitating towards it in slow circular motions, she inched ever so tediously closer and closer to its perimeter.

Goosebumps flared, her belly flexed, and Amara shook her head in desperation as her eyes wandered about the ceiling.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t… CLAIRE!”

Her every limb cried out in a distressing crescendo of agony as a single finger began to excavate her navel. Disavowed by the confinements keeping her subdued, she resorted to grinding her nails against the meat of her palms, a minor discomfort that took only seconds to be rampantly overrun by Claire’s resolve.

“CLAIRE-RA-HA-HA… FOR FUCK’S SAKE-KA-HA-HA… STOOOP-PA-HA!”

Fueled by the unwavering fabrications off an imagination run wild, Claire transferred her jealousy and lust for vengeance into every stiff finger thrust along her captive’s lower abdominals. Rippling flesh turned Amara’s tattoo into a scrunched rendition of the scaly little red head from under the sea, a testament to power Claire carried in each hand.

“OH MEY GOD… RED, RED,REDUUH!”

All that had amassed, all that had encompassed every ounce of her being, fleeted like the rumbles of a distancing thunder after a heavy rain. If ever there was a thunderstorm, she laid as its aftermath, a disoriented mass of flesh, cooing infantile babble into her shoulder.

“That’s two!”

Agonizing over her choices as she clopped back to the foot of the table, Claire picked up a bottle of baby oil. The fallacy of her hands generously massaging the oil between Amara’s toes and over the balls of her feet put a mischievous grin on Claire’s face, all the more widened as a pleasurable moan eked off her captive’s lips.

“Isn’t this nice?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Feels good doesn’t it?”

“Ooh… are we like… is this what I get after two?”

Sinking into the lull of tranquility limbered her joints one by one till her body was flaccid. Letting out a long sigh, balled fists spread to flat hands as the war of attrition that weathered her body was seemingly seeing its sunset.

“You know what happens to skin… when you put oil on it? Oh, I learned the hard way, and you will too.”

“What… what do you… hey what’s… is that a… hairbrush!?”

Rubber bristles sparked a fire underneath her feet as inch by inch they were consumed by a volley of endless irritations. Again her body took umbrage, only now her efforts were muted versions of the flared insanities that had once shook the table; faint tugs against a preordained destiny that was unwilling to give an inch. Her laughs turned to whimpers, her whimpers to sobs, until at last lucidity made its exit.

The Edges Fray

And so it was, as time slipped through her fingers, Claire was forced to relinquish her place. She’d left her captive, a degraded shell of the woman who’d walked in. But when the dynamic was restored, and Amara was upright and relieved, Claire’s efforts became inconsequential; a hollow victory.

Sasha would field a number of questions from both parties regarding the powers that be, and the hand they played in designing fate. Answers were given with an earnest truth as she laid out Mr. Summit’s own fetish, a fetish for authenticity.

Sandy, who had been pensively exploring a playroom, was ecstatic to be reunited with her friend and was anxious to squeeze every detail out of her. But with Amara’s toes pointed towards the exit, they swiftly dusted their feet of the place known as Threshold. Linked arm in arm they peered up to the sky and its infinite splendor.

Like wrestling with a python trying to consume her, Claire fought to get out of her jumpsuit. It peeled off her sweat laden skin at a great discomfort, dragging against the microscopic hairs of her limbs. It sat, discarded on the ground as Claire, through a cracked mirror, studied the outlines left etched into her body like a fresh burn off a branding iron.

END PART 2
 
Finally had a chance to read through this, and I have to say, you did an awesome job. The whole story culminates very well, and I feel for a lot of the characters, particularly Sasha, boy does she have it tough. Once again, you've managed to take a tickle story to a whole other level.
 
I've just read through the story myself, and I regret that I missed it when originally posted. This was an extremely fun read; I especially liked the interactions between Claire and Sasha. Well done.
 
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